Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

Porter spun round. He stared, then gave a perfunctory smile.

‘Where’d you come from? Scared me to death.’ He flicked away a cigarette he’d had cupped in his hand. It hissed in the wet cinders as he gestured towards the Daimler. ‘Sir Stephen would like a word.’

I’d no idea what Leo Villiers’ father might want, and I’d no wish to speak to the man anyway. But I could hardly refuse. Hoping it wouldn’t take long, I started to walk over to the Daimler as Porter opened its rear door.

‘He’s here, Sir Stephen.’

He stood politely by the black car, gloved hands folded in front of him. My boots squelched as I walked, and I was conscious of how wet and bedraggled I was. But the unease I felt had nothing to do with that. I slowed, wondering how Sir Stephen knew I’d been staying at the boathouse. Or why he hadn’t phoned if he wanted to talk. I found my eyes going to the cigarette stub Porter had discarded.

I stopped.

The driver stood patiently by the car’s open door, water trickling over his bare head. The pockmarked face had dark flecks on it, like shaving cuts. I took in the black leather gloves, the smart black brogues that were now muddy and smeared. They were city shoes, the sort that would have smooth leather soles.

Like the footprint in Lundy’s blood I’d seen at the sea fort.

‘Dr Hunter?’ Porter said, still standing by the open car door.

I found my voice. ‘I thought Sir Stephen didn’t like you smoking.’

His polite smile remained in place. ‘And I’m sure I’ll be reprimanded for it. Now, if you don’t mind...’

I couldn’t see into the back of the car. The door had opened towards me, and the darkly tinted windows hid whatever was inside. I looked over at the boathouse.

The door stood ajar, the frame splintered by the lock.

The rain beat down as Porter and I faced each other across the cinders. He pushed the car door shut with a heavy thunk .

‘Worth a try.’

My heart was pounding. I didn’t know why he was here, but I knew what it meant. And as my fatigue dropped away, I also knew that he wouldn’t let me go now I’d seen him. Any more than he had Stacey Coker.

Or Lundy.

Porter gave a snort when he saw me look towards my car. ‘Yeah, go ahead. I’ll just wait here while you unlock it.’

I abandoned that idea: there was no way I was getting past him.

Trying to seem as unconcerned as he did, I nodded at the small flecks of blood on his pockmarked cheeks. ‘Not a good move, shooting a steel door. You’re lucky you didn’t lose an eye.’

‘Yeah, lucky. That’s me.’

He glanced past me to the steps leading down to the jetty, as though checking there was no one else he’d missed. Almost absently, he flexed his folded hands, snugging the fingers of the leather gloves down tighter. ‘So where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’

‘Look, I’ve had a shit day and I’m really not in the mood. Just tell me where it is.’

I felt I was in some surreal nightmare. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

There was no smile on his face now. ‘Don’t fuck around. Where’s the money ?’

‘What money? I don’t—’

‘Look, you stupid bastard, I’m giving you a chance here,’ he spat. ‘Villiers’ five hundred grand, it was hidden in the cupboard at Holloway’s house. Where is it?’

None of this made any sense. Five hundred thousand was the amount Emma Derby and Mark Chapel had demanded for the photographs. But according to Clarke, Leo Villiers hadn’t paid his blackmailers.

Worry about that later . ‘The house burnt down...’

‘I know it burnt down, but the money was already gone by then. Somebody took it, and Holloway wouldn’t have any use for it even if he knew what it was. The only other people who went there before the police were you and Derby’s sister. So I’ll ask you again. Where’s the fucking money? ’

‘The police searched the house, they must have—’

‘The police went there after I did,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘If they’d found it the old man would have heard, and so would I. Try again.’

I was getting past the shock now, beginning to piece this together. ‘The old man’ must be Sir Stephen. I didn’t know where the money had come from, but Porter had obviously been hiding it at Edgar’s house. And while I’d no idea who had taken it, I knew what he’d found at the house instead.

‘Was it worth killing Stacey Coker for?’ I asked.

If I’d had any doubts, his reaction ended them. An expression that could have been shame crossed his face, but only for a moment. ‘I asked you a question.’

‘Did she actually see you, or did you just strangle her anyway?’

‘Last chance. Are you going to tell me?’

There was no sign of any remorse. I started to say again that I’d no idea, that I didn’t know anything about any money. But even if he believed me Porter wouldn’t let me live to tell anyone. I’d seen first-hand what he’d done to Mark Chapel, a martial arts enthusiast who was younger and bigger. I’d no illusions about my chances in a fight. That left one option.

Porter shrugged and started forward. ‘OK, if that’s how you want it.’

‘It’s in the car boot.’

He stopped, watchful as I searched through my pockets for my car keys. I pulled them out, holding them up for him to see.

‘Here.’

I threw them too hard, hoping he’d miss the catch. But his hand shot out and snatched the keys from the air. He stared at me.

‘It’s all there,’ I told him.

‘It better be.’

I could feel myself shivering from adrenalin as Porter went to my car. Keeping his eyes on me, he thumbed the fob. I forced myself to hold his stare as the door locks clicked open. Still watching me, he reached for the boot. I stood there as it popped open. He lifted it and looked inside.

I turned and ran.

I heard him swear and come after me as I clattered down the steps to the jetty. The boat had seemed my best chance, but looking out to where I’d left it I saw my mistake. I’d been gambling on having enough of a head start to jump in and cast off before Porter could catch up. Even though I wouldn’t have time to start the engine, the rushing current would carry the boat away as soon as it was untied.

But I’d forgotten about the slack I’d left in the line so it wouldn’t be swamped by the rising waters. The tide had carried the boat out to its full extent, and now it was tossing around on the end of the rope like a leashed animal, a good two yards from the end of the flooded jetty.

I’d never haul it back in time.

Porter’s footsteps thudded on the bank as I jumped on to the small landing on the steps. The wave tops had almost reached it, and the jetty itself was all but invisible under them. I’d cornered myself, I realized. There was nothing for it but to jump into the flooded creek and take my chances. But as I was about to fling myself down the last few steps and into the water, there was a movement off to one side. The hatchway’s loose cover was banging in the wind, offering a glimpse of the dock’s dark interior. As Porter’s feet sounded on the timber steps behind me I made up my mind and ducked inside.

I splashed down into blackness and cold, choppy water. Gasping for breath, I grabbed the hatch cover and tried to slam it. The cover bucked as Porter threw himself against it, forcing a hand through the gap. Water sloshed in my face as I struggled to keep him out, the submerged decking creaking and cracking under me in protest. Something bobbed nearby, and in the thin light coming through the hatchway I recognized the broken oar I’d taken into the Backwaters. Keeping my weight against the wooden cover, I snatched up the oar and brought the jagged end down on to Porter’s gloved hand. I stabbed it down again and again, until with a grunt he yanked his arm back.